


Five Times Finn Tried to Hold Rey's Hand, and One Time She Held His

by karmula



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 5 Times, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmula/pseuds/karmula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Finn tried to hold Rey's hand, and one time she held his.</p><p>Alternatively: Maybe he isn't so bad after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little character-exploration piece for Rey/relationship development exploration piece for Rey/Finn, who I ship platonically to Jakku and back. (Back to Earth, not back to Jakku. Why does everybody want to go back to Jakku?) I love my babies both so much and I love how they grow together just throughout TFA, which is what I wanted to capture here. I also have a huge weakness for Five Times fics, so this is just a bit of practise for that genre (so to speak) and for getting to know these characters a bit better. Hope you enjoy!

It is literally within moments of meeting, and he's already trying to hold her damn hand. It's not that it's uncomfortable; in fact, his hand is pleasantly warm and smooth in hers, almost as if he's used to having it gloved, which is practically alien when it comes to anyone on Jakku.

Sure, his grip is firm - perhaps even a little too firm, and very insistent - but nothing about it is unfriendly, and in a way it's even gentle, especially when she looks up and locks eyes with him, sees his gaze is melting and soft and comfortingly brown in a way that is indescribable.

And it's not that she has that feeling, that one she gets in the pit of her stomach and that rushes alongside the blood in her veins and that even seems to vibrate in the very air around her when something is wrong, when something is out of place, that feeling she has never disclosed to anyone because it feels so distinctly intimate, so personal, that to do so would feel like a violation of some unwritten rule.

No, it isn't that, it isn't any of that. It's her pride, or something similar; it's how unfamiliar a gesture like this, borne not out of necessity or survival, but instead out of camaraderie and caring, feels against the shell of her skin. It is a combination of embarrassment at having given the impression that she needs to be helped, and sheer shock at how unexpected it is, how strange. _Why?_

She yanks her hand from his, wiping it off on her beige rags as she runs ahead, an act which in itself is as nonsensical as the one that had preceded it, since her clothes are surely more dirty, encrusted with weeks of sand and grime since their last wash, than his grip had been. But none of this is of any concern to Rey; it's more about the message it sends than any sort of logic, anyway.

So, to hammer the message home, she states it outright, as direct as possible. "“I know how to run without you holding my hand!"

He seems taken aback, stumbles even, but she pays that no heed other than to smile inwardly, giving herself a minute nod of satisfaction.

_That ought to do it._


	2. Five Minutes Later

Except it hadn't, not at all, because here he is not five minutes later grabbing her by the hand all over again. And while they're running from strangers with blasters, too! Shouldn't holding her hand be the last thing on his mind? She should think so, but apparently not, for he maintains his grip steadfastly even as he tugs her forward, tripping a little over his own feet as he urges her on.

A string of alarmed beeps ring in her ears as the little droid skids across the sand just behind her, struggling a little to keep up. Her footsteps squeak like sand-mice, the blasters emit a shrill, droning sort of whine that seems to tear apart the very air, and all she can think about is the fact that he is still holding her hand.

She would be utterly nonplussed if she weren't so entirely outraged. Surely she hasn't in any way given the impression that she needs assistance - has she? Is there perhaps something the matter with him?

She shakes him off and returns her hand to her side, pumping both of her arms like pistons as she sprints ahead. "Stop taking my hand!" she snaps, a little breathlessly, though by his expression that hasn't compromised any of her intended ferocity, for which she's thankful.

"Come on, BB-8!" she says, darting to and fro through the marketplace, an erratic target for their pursuers. A laser blast whizzes past her left ear and slams into the frame of a stall in front of her, which promptly gives way and buckles into a dusty heap onto the ground, produce spilling forth in a tidal wave.

Rey doesn't miss a beat, leaping across customers who've stooped to take advantage of the chaos and hitting the ground running. She hears a chiming of staccato beeps behind her as BB-8 swerves to avoid the mess, and heavy panting as Finn copies her - not too shabbily, though she'd sooner stumble and be left to the men with blasters than admit it.

What she doesn't say is, "Follow me, Finn!" but he does that anyway - and truth be told, she's beginning to mind less and less, and not just because he's with the Resistance.

That doesn't mean she'll let him hold her hand, though.


	3. Aboard the Falcon

Sure, this one’s garbage, but together they did a hell of a job flying it. Who knows, maybe it isn’t so bad after all.

Rey can’t believe it, can’t believe they’ve pulled it off. The flying, the dodging, the swerving and swooping and all the wild manoeuvring she didn’t even know she was capable of; it’s such a rush, the feel of adrenaline pumping, no, _burning_ through her veins, the knowledge that they’ve made it out of this alive, unharmed, that they _did_ it, that _she_ did it.

So she jumps out of her chair – _the pilot’s chair_ , she corrects herself, though it feels so good to hear the words, even if it’s only in her mind – and rushes over to congratulate Finn, only to find that he’s already halfway there.

Then they’re both exclaiming, babbling over one another in a nervous rush of excitement, the words tripping over one another as they tumble out. He smells slightly ripe – for which she doesn’t blame him, considering the generous amount she’s sweat herself in the past twenty minutes – but mostly of sand and home, like Jakku. It’s comforting, and between that and his performance not minutes before, she thinks maybe she’s even starting to _like_ him, really truly like him, enjoy his company, call him a friend.

They circle each other, still speaking, still gesticulating wildly, congratulatory and exhilarated and celebratory. He keeps a modest distance – he’s learned his lesson after her outbursts, she sees – except for one moment, one sliver of a second in which he forgets himself, their arms are both up in the air and his hand slips momentarily – less than momentarily – into hers.

He obviously realises he’s overstepped a boundary, because before she can even process the feeling of his warm, slightly clammy skin, it’s gone again. He hadn’t even had time to link his fingers with hers; it had been more of a bumping of palms, a skimmed collision of the heel of their hands.

From the look in his eyes – a little wider than they had been, shining with shame, flitting back and forth as he strains to read her and finds that she’s as encrypted as ever – he obviously expects to be reprimanded, or yelled at again. But she doesn’t have time, because BB-8 is there, crashing to the floor of the ship-which-maybe-isn’t-so-garbage-after-all and beeping reproachfully, then excitedly as he rolls towards them.

But truthfully, she doesn’t know if she would have even if she _had_ had the time. She didn’t feel that initial revulsion, that shock that she had before – it had felt as natural as their celebration in the first place, as the happy chime of their voices basking in the glow of a job well done. It had seemed a natural extension of whatever was blooming between them, whatever connection or even friendship they were fostering with each passing minute.

Or maybe habit would have won out after all, and the air would have turned icy with her breath and his puppy-dog eyes would fall and she’d have her hands to herself, but she thinks this time she would have felt, at the very least, the _slightest_ bit guilty.

And she also thinks that maybe she’s starting to understand why people do the whole hand-holding thing, as unnecessary as it is.

Just maybe.


	4. Fighting the Beast

“ _Finn!_ ” Rey shouts, her feet thudding so hard on the metal grating it hurts as she sprints after him, the shapeless, oozing form of the Rathtar disappearing down the passage. The floor rattles with every pounding step, ringing in her ears. She can barely hear it above the rush of her own blood and the frantic beat of her own heart.

“Rey!” he cries back, struggling against the ever-tightening grip of the Rathtar, its monstrous tentacles holding him tight as it squeezes through the ship. His voice is hoarse, rasping, like it hurts with every syllable. “ _Rey!_ ”

She knows she’ll never be able to catch up with the Rathtar, knows that even if she did there’d be no way of stopping it. To continue to press on like this would be futile; it would be like condemning Finn herself. The only way to save him is to outsmart it, to find a way around it.

Luckily, a scavenger knows these things.

Or at least, this scavenger does, and has ever since she can remember. Rey has always understood the world around her, especially the technology, more than she has the people. Except, she thinks, perhaps for right now, when she feels so in tune with Finn’s pain and horror it’s as if the slimy tentacles of the Rathtar are tightened around _her_ chest instead of his.

When Rey finds the controls, panting heavily around a lump in her throat the size of a Millennium Falcon, panic momentarily coils its way around her chest, threatening to squeeze. Where is Finn? She can’t find him on the monitors anywhere, knows he must be there, he _must_ , of all the damned times for her eyes to play tricks on her –

Then a scream crackles through the microphone and the Rathtar appears on screen, Finn in tow. She follows its path on the grainy monitor closely with her eyes, not even daring to blink for fear she might lose it. When it crosses through an open portal door into another section of the ship, she slams the button, and all the while she has the curious feeling that she is not relying on her sight at all, but rather on some inexplicable internal knowledge that transcends all else she has ever felt or known.

Her heart leaps when she sees the doors close, sees Finn alive and well, the creature’s appendages sliced cleanly from its hideous body. She races through the ship, calling his name, faster and faster until her surroundings blur and all she is aware of is the sharp, ripe tang of her own perspiration. When she finally finds him she’s so relieved, the pressure in her chest instantaneously lifted, she could almost die. Even the air smells better, fresh and clean, despite the rank rot of the severed Rathtar limbs only feet away.

“Finn!” Rey exclaims again, beaming. He’s smiling too – well, his eyes are; his mouth is still stuck in that O shape it makes when he’s shocked or overwhelmed – and then he’s running, pulling her alongside, back the way she had come, steering them in what she assumes is the way towards the ship deck and the Falcon.

His hand isn’t quite holding hers, clasped instead an inch or so above the wrist. His skin is so warm, something comforting to focus on in the midst of such chaos. She knows it isn’t an action born of a lack of faith in her, knows it’s one that comes from a good place, and she even thinks that, now, she understands that place, could even make a home there.

This time, when she shrugs him off, it isn’t out of coldness or resistance. It’s just not practical to be holding hands while one is fleeing for their life, that’s all. And for Rey, practicality takes precedence. Always.


	5. Rescue

Her first thought: _He came to rescue me._

Her second: _He came back._

Instinctively, habitually, Rey wants to be defensive, to act aloof, to demonstrate in every minute action and every insignificant word that she didn’t need rescuing. It would be the truth, after all. She has spent long enough fending for herself that it is second – no, _first_ – nature to her now, a part of who she is; just ask the scratches on her wall back home.  She is more than capable, and she’s  always wanted everyone to know it.

But she doesn’t.  Act defensive, that is. The truth is, she’s happy to see him. Overjoyed, in fact. Her heart is warmed not only in the knowledge that he’s come back, but also in the knowledge that he cares – about _her_ – and that it’s a caring that comes from a place of respect and never from pity or duty, which is not something he’s ever stated outright but something she is beginning to see as one sees a figure emerging from a fog. It’s still a little blurry, partially obscured, but with every passing minute it begins to make a little more sense in her mind.

Just because he wants to help, doesn’t mean he sees her as incapable.

She remembers all the times he’s tried to hold her hand, remembers how it had felt to know he was leaving, that she had lost him, and feels momentarily embarrassed, even ashamed. What if she had never seen him again? How much would she have regretted brushing him off? Would she ever be able to find a friend as true?

The answer is clear to her now, and she knows she has a lot to make up for.

“You came back!”

So she does one better than holding hands, even though that’s what he reaches out to do.

She gives him a hug.

She wraps her arm around him tight, squeezing so he knows it’s okay, he can hug back. His hesitant arms move over and around her in a loose embrace before he throws himself into it with abandon, pulling her close and not holding back as one would with someone they view as weaker, as lesser. His voice, rich and full of bliss, is in her ear and his skin is flush with hers and still she can’t get enough.

_He came back, he came back._

“Escape now, hug later,” Han says, breaking them apart as cleanly as the blade of a knife.

But Rey isn’t bothered, because she knows there _will_ be a later. And when there is, she isn’t letting go.


	6. Jedi

The first thing she is struck by is his face, how _empty_ it is. Under the unflattering beam of the healing bay’s fluorescent lights, even his skin is washed out, markedly paler than usual. There is not even a discernible flicker of his eyelids, as if there is absolutely nothing underneath, or his eyeballs have been turned to stone. He is so unresponsive, so closed-off.  Which is to be expected, of course, from someone in a coma.

It’s just not something she would ever have expected from Finn.

It’s the first time Rey has come to visit him since he was brought back to the Resistance base, but not the first time she has imagined this moment. In her head, she imagined her mere presence would be enough to wake him up, that he would simply _sense_ her (as she has always been able to do) and open his eyes.

She realises now, as much as she had always told herself that it was just a fantasy, that it could never happen, how much she has been counting on just that. She has set herself up for disappointment, and she is feeling the full force of that disappointment now, converging in her stomach and her chest until it feel as though she cannot breathe.

It’s the first time Rey has come to visit him, and also the last. At least for now.

Because General Organa has given her a mission, and as much as Rey wishes she could glue herself to his bedside and never leave, but with the might of the First Order looming above them and the mystery of Luke’s location unlocked, practicality takes precedence, now more than ever.

Though, with the General’s permission (and blessing), she’s made time for a goodbye before she leaves. Maybe friendship can take precedence too; maybe the two can even work together.

_Stop it! Stop distracting yourself. Just say something._

Rey swallows hard, but the lump in her throat will not be dislodged. As she speaks around it, she is struck once again by how still he is, how painfully absent. All that reassures her of his presence is the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. In, out, in, out.

And something else, something…

_She is strong with the Force!_

Rey can _feel_ him, can feel his life. It stirs softly like an animal in slumber, glows with a warm aura that pulses gently in time with the beats of not only her heart, but the heart of the planet, of the galaxy. Abruptly she is struck with the curious sensation of cradling a wounded bird, weak and curled in upon itself. She inhales sharply, almost startling herself out of her reverie, but manages to hold onto it by closing her eyes, focusing inward on the feeling until the outside world has all but vanished.

Suddenly, she feels the bird’s wings flutter, brushing ever so gently against the cupped walls of her palm.

Rey opens her eyes and leans over, pressing a kiss to his stony forehead, and in the same instant takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes, tightly.

_See you soon, my friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that concludes this Five Times (+ 1 other time, I guess) fic, which is also my first (but hopefully not my last) fic for the Star Wars fandom! If you liked it, please leave a kudos and/or a comment! Thank you for reading, and if you have any prompts feel free to send them over at my tumblr, [gaydeathstar.tumblr.com](www.gaydeathstar.tumblr.com/ask) :)


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